Seasons in the Sun
by Under0The0Sea
Summary: A series of fics all centred around the young Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. Supposed to be oneshots but most seem to evolve into something further. Now taking suggestions of song titles to be used as prompts.
1. Pick a Pocket or Two

_My muse seems to have taken …'s request for more fics about the young Sherlock and Mycroft to heart. She's been pestering me non stop finally forcing me to submit to her will and write the following fics. _

_Why she can not inspire me to get on with my school work I'll never know._

_Anyway these collection of fics are inspired by song titles; basically it's a way of forcing myself to write even if I don't want to (a skill that I will need if I'm serious about becoming either a journalist or a author) _

_I've put my ipod on shuffle and written a short fic that is about the song title - these aren't song fics; I haven't listened to the lyrics at all while writing. I also haven't given myself a time limit (I know there are some people who write fics during the song and stop after the song is finished). _

_Given some of the songs on my ipod this should be interesting... _

**Pick a Pocket or Two **

(it's from Oliver and it's the Ron Moody version if you're interested)

Mycroft looked around his bedroom unhappily. In it's current state it looked more like a pigsty, a crime scene or a passable imitation of Sherlock's room. Mycroft ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He had completely ransacked his room and he still couldn't find it. Which was completely ridiculous. There was nowhere else it could be. Mycroft was perfectly convinced that he hadn't taken it out of his pocket.

He sat down on his bed, shoving aside a pile of clothes and stared dejectedly at the mess. It would take hours to tidy his room and it had all been in vain. He didn't understand what had happened to it. No one else would have taken it. Detachedly, as he thought about who could have taken the elusive object, Mycroft heard footsteps thundering down the corridor - of course, why hadn't he thought of it before? Sherlock.

He hurried over to the door and opening it just as Sherlock ran past he yanked the smaller boy inside.

"What are you -" protested Sherlock. He stopped gazing wide eyed at Mycroft's room "What have you done in here? Has a hurricane been?" Mycroft didn't appreciate the eight year old's humour. Nor did he bother questioning Sherlock about where he had gotten the idea of a hurricane from - no doubt he had read about them in some obscure book.

"Where is my pocket watch?" Sherlock squirmed in Mycroft's grip but otherwise gave no sign he had heard his older brothers question.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock wriggled away from Mycroft and began exploring Mycroft's dishevelled room.

"I don't know? Have you lost it?" he asked innocently. There was nothing in Sherlock's manner to remotely suggest that he was lying and yet Mycroft knew he was. He watched his younger brother as Sherlock prowled around his room, examining his more interesting possessions.

"Yes. You have not seen it around the house?"

"No." Sherlock picked up Mycroft's magnifying glass.

"Do you ever use this?" he asked hopefully.

"How many times must I tell you Sherlock that you may not have my magnifying glass." Mycroft snapped in reply. He wondered briefly if he should just persuade Sherlock to give him his pocket watch with violence but quickly discarded the idea when he decided they were both way too old for that kind of immaturity.

However Sherlock was stubborn and wouldn't give back the watch - or even admit to having it - on his own. Which meant Mycroft would have to induce Sherlock's cooperation another way. The beginnings of an idea were beginning to form in Mycroft's mind. He looked up to see Sherlock poking his finger into his inkpot for reasons only known to Sherlock himself. What was he expecting? Invisible ink?

"Sherlock, please desist. I have quite enough to be doing without you messing up my room further." Sherlock turned quickly to face his brother and as he turned his elbow caught a stack of books and papers which all tumbled to the ground. Mycroft took a calming breath.

"Out, Sherlock!" he almost yelled. Sherlock, who for once seemed to see the logic in making himself scare, made a beeline for the exit.

The following morning Sherlock was meandering around the house and getting under everyone's feet. After being chased from the kitchen by a red faced Marie and told quite forcibly to 'go up to his room and stay there' by an exasperated Charlotte, Sherlock decided to go and see what Mycroft was doing. There was a chance it was something interesting like an experiment. And even if it wasn't he could always borrow one of Mycroft's books or his ink or his magnifying glass.

Sherlock charged up the stairs and barrelled enthusiastically into his brother's room which was once again completely tidy. To his initial disappointment he found that Mycroft was sitting at his desk reading a newspaper. Then he decided it wasn't a complete loss - sometimes newspapers were interesting. Sherlock especially liked the stories about the police catching burglars.

He toyed briefly with the idea of joining the police when he was older as he jumped onto Mycroft's bed. It would be fun, he thought, to catch burglars and put them in prison.

"What are you reading?" he asked. He hoped it wasn't something boring like politics which Mycroft and his father often talked about. What did it matter what France was doing? It was too far away to worry about.

"It's not suitable for you." Mycroft replied in his don't-bother-me-Sherlock voice.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"It will probably be too scary for you." Mycroft replied as he turned the page. Sherlock got up and bounded over to Mycroft and pulled at his arm.

"Let me see!" he wailed, "I want to see." he repeated more fervently.

"No." was Mycroft's succinct reply as he shook his brother off and closed the newspaper.

"If I promise not to be scared will you let me see?" Sherlock gave his brother an imploring look that usually coerced Mycroft into giving him his own way.

"Fine." Mycroft handed the paper to Sherlock, who grabbed it and dropped to the floor and opened it at roughly the page Mycroft had been reading. Sherlock sat crossed legged and held the massive newspaper open in his lap.

He bit his lip, as he struggled to read the enormous chunks of minuscule, close writing. He frowned, scanning the text for words he knew. They were lots of them but Sherlock couldn't make them form logical sentences. Sherlock was a good reader, especially for his age, but the formal tone and cramped writing of a newspaper was still beyond him. He struggled for a few minutes before Mycroft said.

"You can't read it can you." Sherlock squirmed; he hated admitting weakness and hated his brother being right even more.

"No." he muttered. Then he brightened. "But you can. You can tell me what it's about." Mycroft sighed heavily.

"If I do, will you leave me alone?" Sherlock nodded eagerly if not completely truthfully.

"All right then. It's about a policeman who died." Sherlock's eyes went wide and he scrambled up onto Mycroft's bed to get comfortable while he listened to the story. Sherlock liked policeman; this would probably be a very good story.

"The policeman was very skilled at catching criminals. However he died in an armed robbery when one of the criminals shot him. The policeman has been seen by several people. They are claiming that he haunts the village." Mycroft summarised unenthusiastically. Sherlock's eyes lit up. He loved ghosts.

"What was the policeman's name? How many people have seen him? How long ago did he die?"

"The policeman's name was William Smith. Over ten people have see him. He died two months ago." Sherlock narrowed his eyes,

"That's not the whole story is it?" he asked his brother accusingly. "That's not scary enough!" Mycroft appraised him and Sherlock gave him a winning smile and assured his brother once again that he wouldn't get scared.

"The policemen is said to haunt criminals."

"Haunt?" repeated Sherlock breathlessly,

"Yes. He goes after people who have stolen items. It doesn't matter whether the items are valuable or not, he makes sure every criminal is revenged upon. The criminals are never seen again." Mycroft paused and then seeing Sherlock's expression of horrified fascination sought to give his brother a reality check, "It's nonsense. There are no such things as ghosts as I've told you many times before Sherlock."

"What does he do to the robbers?" asked Sherlock, biting his lip.

"It hardly matters. Firstly the story is more than likely just a lie spun by people looking to scare others for their own amusement, else it's a story told by parents to put young children off stealing. Secondly, you are not a pickpocket or any other form of criminal so there is no need for you to worry is there?"

"No." murmured Sherlock, thinking guiltily of the watch he had taken from Mycroft's pocket and the comb he had taken from Charlotte's. He was going to give them back. He just wanted to see if he could take them from their pockets without them noticing; and he could. That didn't make him a thief, did it?

"He gets revenge on everyone?" Sherlock asked in a tremulous voice.

"Everyone who takes things that are not theirs, yes. Now Sherlock can you please go and play in your own room. I'm busy." For once Sherlock wasn't thinking about arguing. He slipped off his brother's bed and slunk towards the door thinking worriedly about William Smith.

Sherlock stayed out of Mycroft's way all morning which pleased Mycroft greatly. At lunch instead of making his usual histrionic fuss about eating, Sherlock bolted his food, which was highly unusual for him, and scampered upstairs looking a little pale. Mycroft ate his lunch at a more leisurely pace and went back up to his room some twenty minutes later.

As he reached the top of the stairs he saw that Sherlock's door was slightly open and that Sherlock was peeking through the gap. As soon as Sherlock noticed him looking the door instantly shut. Mycroft smiled knowingly and entered his own bedroom. As he had suspected, lying conspicuously on his bedside table, was his watch.


	2. Teeth

**Teeth**

Sherlock was eating his luncheon as slowly as was humanely possible which annoyed Mycroft infinitely.

"You don't have to wait for me you know." Sherlock said as Mycroft began drumming his fingers lightly on the table.

"Actually I do. I have been told that I am to stay with you until you finish your meal because you don't eat well enough when left to your own devices." Sherlock looked at his plate miserably and pulled a face.

"Do hurry up Sherlock. I don't want to still be sitting here at dinner time." Sherlock sighed heavily but he began to eat slightly faster. Several minutes passed with Sherlock eating his lunch unhappily, and Mycroft staring into space.

Thoroughly fed up and not at all hungry, Sherlock surreptitiously dropped a piece of bread onto the floor. When his brother didn't react he dropped another, bigger chunk of bread onto the floor. Feeling pleased with his cunning, Sherlock broke his bread in half and dropped the slightly bigger half on the floor.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock looked up to see Mycroft watching him with one eyebrow raised questioningly; in his haste to get rid of the food he had forgotten to check whether Mycroft had been looking.

"Whatever's the matter? Just hurry up and eat your food."

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock wailed plaintively. "I can't eat all of this." Sherlock continued, looking wretchedly at his plate. He looked up at his brother imploringly. Mycroft sighed.

"Eat the apple." he said, "you can leave the rest."

"Just the apple?" Sherlock confirmed suspiciously.

"Yes. Only don't tell anyone how much you've left. And for heaven's sake hurry up. I've got better things to be doing this afternoon than watching you eat." Sherlock nodded, feeling slightly happier and picked up the apple. Another minute or two passed during which Mycroft began drumming on the table again.

Suddenly Sherlock spat a mouthful of apple onto his plate.

"What _are _you doing?" asked Mycroft exasperatedly.

"Tooth." Sherlock explained as he prodded at the chewed up apple.

"Pardon?"

"My tooth." Sherlock held up a small object.

"That's just a piece of apple. Is this some kind of ploy so you can leave the rest of that apple?" he asked as he cast a disinterred glance at he apple coloured object Sherlock was holding.

"No!" exclaimed Sherlock, "This is definitely my tooth."

"Sherlock, stop messing around and eat that apple, this is getting ridiculous."

"I can't eat an apple with a missing tooth!" Sherlock protested, waving the tooth in question around in the air in front of him. Mycroft got up and walked over to see what Sherlock was holding. He looked at it.

"Sherlock, that cannot be your tooth. None of your teeth have been wobbly* enough to come out." he said reasonably as he continued to examine the tooth. Sherlock sighed impatiently and squeezed the tooth.

"See!" he said "it's too hard to be a piece of apple," Mycroft had to admit his brother was right it did appear to be too hard to be a piece of apple.

"Open your mouth." he told his brother. Sherlock obliged.

"Wider." Mycroft said slightly impatiently, and Sherlock opened his mouth a fraction more. Mycroft put his fingers under his siblings chin and tipped his head back so he could see better.

"Oh yes." he said as he let go of Sherlock. "You're now missing one tooth."

"Told you! Which one?" Sherlock said eagerly.

"Bottom middle right." Sherlock grinned his familiar grin which was turned unfamiliar by the missing tooth.

"Does that mean I don't have to eat the rest of my apple now?" he asked.

"I suppose so." Mycroft acquiesced resignedly. Sherlock jumped up clutching his tooth like it was pure gold.

"Can I borrow your magnifying glass?" he asked cheerfully, "I want to see what my tooth looks like close up."

*I'm not sure if Victorians used the word 'wobbly' however I couldn't think of any other words to describe wobbly teeth and the thesaurus wasn't very forthcoming either.

_This is based on how I lost my first tooth. I had to work to convince my mum that it wasn't a piece of apple that I'd spat out as she thought and that it was really my tooth. _

_Thank you for reading and thank you to those who have reviewed. It really means a lot to recieve reviews. _

_Still looking for a new title. Does anyone have any ideas?_


	3. Be Back Soon!

Mycroft continued reading. He was interrupted minutes later by a screeching sound which sounded remarkably like tone deaf cats being tortured. He looked up and saw Sherlock scraping his violin haphazardly his sharp features screwed up into a thunderous scowl. Mycroft chose to ignore the wailing of the violin; Sherlock was doing it for attention and if ignored would soon let up.

Sherlock proved his brother right a minute later when he threw his violin down on a chair.

"I'm bored." he exclaimed fervently and the bow followed his violin onto the chair.

"Well find a way to entertain yourself." Mycroft spoke the clichéd words in a patronising tone that all older siblings develop and frequently employ. Sherlock responded by whining in a tone that younger siblings master that is designed to grate on their older siblings nerves.

"There's _nothing _to _do_."

"You could tidy your bedroom." Mycroft responded, his tone completely serious. Sherlock answered his brother with a look and stalked off, taking care to slam the door behind him.

* * *

__

Don't worry, I haven't given up with If We Ever Meet Again.

I'm sorry I know this was really really short. It's actually something I wrote ages ago which I was going to stick in the right fic when the opportunity arose (so don't be surprised if it makes another appearance in the future)

I've given it to you today as a kind of apology. My wrist has once again decided to play up which makes typing not impossible but very difficult. Consequently I won't be writing while it sorts itself out. Now this could take weeks or it could be fixed by tomorrow; I never know.

So I'm sorry and I'll start writing again as soon as I can as this period of not writing is driving me mad. I've so many ideas in my head and I can't get them down. :(

Again I'd like to thank everyone who takes time to review. It really brightens my day.

Thanks for reading and I'll be back soon

(Chapter title is **Be Back Soon **from Oliver)


	4. Vertigo

__

This should have been If We Ever Meet Again.

Unfortunately my muse decided she had some sort of issue with that fic and half way through just left me. I know what happens at the beginning as I've already written it. I know what happens at the end because the ending was the first thing that popped into my head when my ipod chose the song. It's just I can't seem to get from one to the other.

__

It's tiny what I need. Just one bit of dialogue or one or two sentences. But no, apparently that's to much to ask.

Ergo, I decided to just put my ipod on shuffle again and come up with a new fic and hopefully in the meantime my muse will stop sulking and give me the sentence.

She really is fickle my muse because she seemed really into this fic *rolls eyes*

* * *

**Vertigo **

Sherlock winced as the abrasive bark grazed his forearm. He reached up, fingertips scrabbling for the branch above, which was just beyond his reach. He jumped and caught the branch, pulling himself up inelegantly but efficiently. He paused for a moment sitting atop the branch kicking his heels in the air enjoying a moments peace amongst the slowly dying light.

After catching his breath Sherlock, got up and scrambled upwards; climbing the tiered branches that began to look almost like a ladder, pulling himself higher and higher…

"Sherlock!" surprise caused Sherlock's grip to slacken slightly and he nearly fell. He scrambled up onto the branch, stood and turned around so that he could look down at the figure on the ground which he could only just make out through the branches.

"Mycroft" he called, peering down at his brother, " look how high I am."

"I can see how high you are." came Mycroft's irritable reply, filtering up through the crisscross of branches, "Now get down."

"Why?" asked Sherlock and, following the age old tradition of ignoring his brothers orders, began to scramble for the next branch up.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft sounded exasperated but Sherlock really wanted to reach the top of the tree and wasn't going to stop for Mycroft. Anyway he knew what he was doing; he was good at this, he wouldn't fall. Mycroft was worrying unnecessarily.

"Sherlock, _please _come down." Mycroft's voice was beginning to sound far away.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, that branch is cracked! Sherlock!" The beginnings of panic were evident in Mycroft's voice now. Sherlock glanced down at the branch he was standing on and saw that, yes, the branch was cracked right at the end near the trunk. He began to walk along it carefully. The branch didn't move at all. He jumped and watched the branch as he landed. The branch still didn't move.

"It's fine!" Sherlock yelled. "I don't weigh enough to make it move."

"Get down anyway!" Sherlock scowled. His brother was always ruining his most interesting experiments and stopping him from doing anything exciting like climbing this tree. Feeling obstinate Sherlock began to jump up and down on the branch.

"No!" he shouted back down to Mycroft and was pleased to hear that when Mycroft responded there was irritation in his voice.

"Sherlock you're going to fall." there was definite panic in Mycroft's voice now. Sherlock felt the thrill of vindictive pleasure. He carried on jumping up and down, filled with the knowledge that it was annoying his brother but there was nothing Mycroft could do about it other that climbing up to get him himself. And Mycroft wouldn't do that. For now, Sherlock was the one in control, the one with the upper hand, and this happened so rarely that he was going to savour every moment.

"I'm not going to fall." he half yelled, half laughed. He heard Mycroft begin to reply but his words were cut off by a dreadful creaking, cracking sound and suddenly Sherlock's world lurched. And then he was falling, tumbling through the air, and the branches were scratching and swiping at him, and time seemed to be both sped up and slowed down. And there was sound, a sort of whooshing and a indistinct thudding but it sounded distant and far away, as though it didn't really matter. He couldn't see anything, his eyes were too tightly shut but he could _feel _that he was falling and it was the most horrible, terrifying feeling. His arms shot out blindly, instinctively and by pure chance managed to grab onto to a branch.

Sherlock hugged his lifeline, wrapping his arms securely around it and hung in the air. He was shaking, still fearful from his short freefall, and didn't yet have enough strength to pull himself up onto the branch. A minute later and his frantically beating heart had calmed a little and his strength had returned enough for him to pull himself up onto the branch and he sat on it, grateful for the relative safety and security. He sat in silence, the only sounds his ragged breathing as it slowly returned to normal. And suddenly he laughed. He hadn't fallen. He was safe.

Sherlock jumped up, his fear and caution almost forgotten in his moment of glee.

"See!" he yelled "I'm fine." he laughed again and looked up. He could see the broken stump, where the branch had been only moments before, not too far above him. Had he only fallen that little way? It felt like he had been falling for an eternity at least.

"I'm so very talented at tree climbing." he yelled triumphantly dizzy with his success. "No one else could have done what I just did." When no one contested this Sherlock began to feel a little confused. He realised that everything was silent apart from his shouts. There were no reprimands from Mycroft filtering up through the branches. There were no yells for Sherlock to get down, no one acknowledging his words. Sherlock shivered, beginning to sense for the first time that something was wrong.

He edged along the branch, the elation that had filled him only moments before gone. Nervously Sherlock looked down to the ground below. It suddenly looked a very long way away and his vision was obscured by dark branches that slashed across his view of the ground.

Suddenly Sherlock's heart stopped. There lying on the ground among the fallen leaves. Mycroft! But how? And then with sudden sickening realisation Sherlock saw the branch that he had broken lying on the ground a little way away from his brother. Sherlock froze. He wanted to scream, to call for help. He wanted to get down. He wanted to check that Mycroft was okay. But he couldn't.

Dizzying fear gripped Sherlock. Fear that Mycroft was seriously hurt, fear about how the ground looked so far away, fear that no one would find them not until it was too late, the crippling, horrible fear that he had killed his brother. The world began to spin out of control but Sherlock remained frozen, trembling, unable to do anything. And for the first time Sherlock experienced vertigo.

* * *

_Poor Mycroft. I do abuse him a little._

_I probably should have thought this through. I was planning on carrying this on (as it I like the ending as it is but can't really leave Mycroft lying on the floor with no conclusion whatsoever) but now my ipod will probably pick something highly inappropriate, like The Best Day or Time of Our Lives. Oh well here goes…_

_**Cemeteries of London **__(Coldplay) My ipod certainly has a twisted sense of humour… _

_(and after Cemeteries of London it will be back to If We Ever Meet Again to try and work on that stupid connecting sentence!)_

_Thanks for reading. And a huge thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far. _


	5. Cemetries of London

Everything was grey. Dreary grey sky that melded seamlessly into the dull grey horizon, in front of which indistinct grey shapes skulked; the grey shapes slowly morphed into listless grey buildings as they drew nearer the eye. There was no rain, however the heavy clouds promised that there would be, and soon, although it was sure to be the lethargic mist-like rain that lacked the energy and purpose need to become a decent downpour. Even the wind was apathetic, only occasionally summoning the strength to throw the crumpled leaves that idled on the roads and pavements into a brief flight, before it died down again and the leaves freefell back down to the ground to be trampled by oblivious feet.

Sherlock walked between the crouching, close buildings that threatened to topple inwards on top of him. He was thoroughly miserable; his mourning clothes were uncomfortable, he was cold, the adults were walking too quickly and he was being forced to contemplate the grim realities of death, something the young Holmes had previously been sheltered from.

Sherlock's logical mind struggled to find the sense or purpose in death. Sherlock couldn't understand why one minute someone was there, very real, fixed into their place in the world and the next they were gone. Just gone.

Sherlock had only a vague idea about heaven and hell and life after death. It had never seemed important before - he liked to concentrate on things he knew absolutely were real- the abstract wasn't interesting. He was very unclear about what happened once you died. And what happened to the bodies in the graves if they woke up in heaven or hell? Did they disappear? Sherlock wondered if he could dig up a grave and find out.

A large wrought iron gate informed Sherlock that they were arriving at the cemetery. He shivered as he gazed at the pale gravestones that lurked in the sharp shadows of the poplar trees. Most of the gravestones were leaning, drunk with age and ere crumbling into the soft ground. The carefully chosen epigraphs were no longer legible; eroded by time as it continued in it's relentless, blameless flow until eventually there would be no one left to remember who the broken headstone represented.

The sound of weeping reached Sherlock's keen ears almost as soon as he stepped inside the cemetery. His eyes widen with surprise; he had childishly, _naively _assumed that it was only his family who had suffered a loss. His eyes were drawn to a young lady dressed in black standing a little way in front of a small clump of mourners. Sherlock stared at her with an intensity that only a child can get away with.

Sherlock watched her with innocent interest, not taking his eyes off of her as he allowed himself to be guided through the cemetery.

"She's lost-" Sherlock said to Mycroft excitedly, seeking confirmation that his theories were correct. And then he remembered that Mycroft wasn't there. _It's your fault_. He compulsively clutched his mothers hand tighter, drawing closer to her as the memories began to cloud his mind. _Your fault_. His mother squeezed his hand in response but continued staring straight ahead, her face completely devoid of emotion._ It was all your fault! _Sherlock tried to push the thought away but couldn't quite manage it. It was there, persistent, tormenting him. _You should have listened to Mycroft_, it whispered. _If you'd just listened to Mycroft then Mycroft wouldn't be-_

The sound of a twig snapping jolted Sherlock from his torturous thoughts. He jumped guiltily - for a second that twig snapping sounded _so _like the breaking of a branch - and he tripped. He would have fallen had his mother not pulled forcefully on his arm allowing him to regain his footing. Sherlock looked around at his black clad relatives expecting a sharp reprimand or perhaps a look of disapproval or even a look of sympathy. But their faces remained stony, impassive, emotionless.

He examined his family more closely; a solid mass of black clad half-strangers surrounding him. It should have been reassuring having them shielding him. It wasn't.

The Holmes' were uncommonly talented at staying detached and not allowing their emotions to show, no matter what the situation. This was, as Sherlock was beginning to understand, because they didn't have or, at the very least, weren't at all interested in emotions. To the casual passer-by the Holmes' carefully crafted expressions and movements suggested that they were suppressing deep emotion however it was all an act. Sherlock knew that very few of them, maybe as little as one or two of them, actually cared who had died. Not one of the Holmes' were under any illusions of family ties or loyalty. There were here because society and decorum expected it, that was all.

Analysing his relatives faces critically as they came to a stop by a waiting grave, Sherlock realised that over half of the people clustered around him he had never seen before and probably wouldn't see again until the next Holmes left the world and passed on to whatever lay beyond.

Sherlock sighed miserably as the vicar started to speak. He tried to listen but his mind refused to let him dwell on the vicars soft words preferring instead to replay that horrible moment when he realised that Mycroft was hurt. The horrible, dizzying, petrifying fear the Mycroft was dead. The realisation that it was all his fault.

The wind was staring to pick up with a little more vigour. There was a bitter edge to the wind, reflected in it's howls as it whipped through the air with a slight vindictiveness. Leaves began to blow around Sherlock's feet in a fatal dance. Sherlock shifted his weight to his other foot as the vicar droned on. The first few rain drops stared to gently fall and still the vicar was talking. _Mycroft was so lucky that a bad concussion was a good enough excuse to miss this_. Sherlock thought darkly. _I didn't even __**know **__great aunt Minerva._

* * *

_Ugh it's finished. _

_I'm not at all happy with it but I realised it had been far too long since I last updated (blame my internet which has been having a strop for the last few days) and that I better put something, anything, on._

_Expect some very heavy editing of this chapter._

_Next up is **Cemeteries of London Part II **-which is an alternative or possibly a sequel to this chapter. _

_After that will be that wayward fic **If We Ever Meet Again**. _

_I'm now going off to work on training my muse…_

_Thanks for reading and as usual thanks to everyone who has reviewed, reviews really do make my day (as cheesy as it sounds) so thanks a million._


	6. Cemetries of London II

Darkness. He opens his eyes but the light is blinding, _nauseating_, so he shuts them again. Dimly he registers a babble of voices and he thinks they're talking to him, but they're ever so noisy and everything is confusing; he just wants quiet and so he shuts them out and returns to the dark.

Blackness. He comes to slowly, with the instinctive knowledge that he has been asleep for a long time. He doesn't know where he is so he opens his eyes. The light is dim but it's _still too bright_. He closes his eyes again quickly but he knows now that he's in his room. His head is pounding and his arm is throbbing in time and it _hurts_. He is tired, so very tired, so he allows himself to drift off again.

Night-time. At least he thinks it's night-time. Why else would it be so dark? At least he can open his eyes without adding to the throbbing pain. Why is he lying in the dark? He can't remember and that annoys him. He lies still for an immeasurable amount of time before he decides to go back to sleep. His head hurts, his arm hurts and there's no use being awake anyway as there's nothing to do. He falls asleep, with irrational frustration clawing at him.

Light. His room is full of people that he half recognises. One of them sees that he is awake and offers him a reassuring smile.

"You are going to be alright." they say and there's more after that but it's too hard to listen and his concentration is slipping. He begins to drift off again and his last conscious thought is: _why would I not be alright_?

Blackness, dimness, light. He wakes several times but each time he just wants to go to sleep again and every time he does, and quickly. Every time he wakes he feels increasingly frustrated. He's confused. He doesn't know what's going on. He falls back asleep.

Daylight. He reaches for his watch but he can't move his arm properly. He looks down and sees it's wrapped firmly in a bandage; he can't remember why. A slight noise informs him there is someone else in the room. He turns his head and sees Charlotte sitting in a chair by his bed. She looks nervous but also faintly bored.

"What happened?" he asks. Charlotte chewed on her lip, the very picture of indecision.

"What happened?" he repeats with more force. He sits up slowly and carefully, being careful not to jolt his head or his arm. The pain has almost gone now, reduced to a dull, irksome ache.

"Careful, Master Mycroft!" Charlotte exclaimed as she watched him struggle to attain an upright position. His only response was to glare at her, his steel grey eyes narrowed with a ferocity that he seldom employed.

"You haven't answered my question." he snapped. "I want to know what happened."

"Do you not remember?" asked Charlotte gently. Mycroft shook his head which turned out to be a bad idea as his headache increasing in intensity. He also felt dizzy and sick and he was very tired which was ridiculous as he felt like he'd been sleeping for an age.

"Of course not." he snapped testily. "Otherwise I would not have asked you."

"You fell out of a tree." Mycroft's bad mood dissipated instantly as his mind reeled at the words.

"What was I doing up a tree?" he asked in utter amazement.

"We're not too sure." admitted Charlotte. "No one saw what happened and Sherlock was in too much of a state to tell us. Sherlock was in the tree when we found you so we assume that he was in the tree and you were climbing up after him to get him down. There was a branch on the floor, we guess it cracked while you were climbing and you fell. You were quite lucky considering, you only received a broken arm-"

Mycroft felt his concentration fading. He had listened carefully to the explanation of events but they did not sound familiar at all, there was no rush of memories, no flashbacks, nothing he recognised at all.

"Where are mother and father?" he asked sleepily, the very obvious fact that his parents weren't by his sickbed suddenly dawning on Mycroft.

"London. They are attending your Great Aunt Minerva's funereal."

"I don't have a Great Aunt Minerva." mumbled Mycroft slumping back down onto the pillows. Just before he fell asleep he was sure he heard Charlotte mutter "not anymore you haven't' which was so out of character Mycroft decided he must of misheard.

Mycroft woke to the sound of his door creaking slowly open. The sound was rebarbative and Mycroft was about to complain vehemently when he realised that it was Sherlock in his room and that he'd be better off staying silent and pretending to be asleep.

Sherlock's footsteps were slow and soft which was very strange; usually Sherlock dashed about as though he was determined not to waste a single second of his childhood by walking slowly.

"Mycroft?" asked Sherlock quietly. Quietly? Sherlock was never quiet. Never. Mycroft was at a complete loss; was he, perhaps, dreaming?

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked again, practically whispering. Mycroft heard a strange scraping noise and then Sherlock was speaking again, asking him softly if he was awake. Mycroft decided that despite Sherlock's strangely solicitous mood, he definitely wasn't awake. If he thought that would deter Sherlock however, he was wrong. Sherlock started talking and Mycroft found that it was much easier than usual to let his brother's voice wash over him.

"Charlotte said you woke up earlier. I don't think she was lying.…talking to mother and father…you looked really pale … 'listless' and 'inattentive' I'm not actually sure what they mean but it didn't sound good...sent me away... I thought you were dead… Dr Robertson said you weren't… try and listen to you from now on. If I'd listened to you the branch probably wouldn't have broken and fallen on your head."

_Fallen on my head? _thought Mycroft. His brain struggled to process the information. _Sherlock says it fell on my head. But Charlotte says I was in the tree and the branch cracked underneath me. That doesn't make sense at all. If I was on the branch how did it fall on my head? _

"-and Charlotte said that it's because I'm feeling guilty. So she said I should say I'm sorry. So I'm sorry. I'm sorry you got hurt." _Sherlock _feeling _guilty_. Now Mycroft was sure he was dreaming. And why was Sherlock saying he was sorry? Mycroft knew that the answer was obvious but it kept eluding him. He heard the mysterious scraping noise again and Sherlock's footsteps. The door gave another rebarbative creak and then there was silence.

Mycroft's brain was working overtime, desperately struggling to make sense of everything he had been told. Mycroft knew that normally the answer would have come to him in no time at all. In fact, if he hadn't hit his head he probably wouldn't have had to even think about it. But now...

And then it all fell into place. Mycroft felt like screaming his brother's name in fury or throwing something at the door that the little wretch had just gone through. As usual Sherlock had been doing something irresponsible and ill-thought out and once more it was Mycroft paying the price. As though to spitefully remind him of this, Mycroft's head began to pound viciously again. As he fought a sudden wave of nausea Mycroft felt like screaming with frustration. He pulled a pillow over his head to block out the light that suddenly seemed very harsh and vowed to channel his rage into some constructive revenge.

It was dark outside when his door creaked open once again. This time though there were no footsteps although Mycroft was sure it was Sherlock as his mother and father had left not long ago, so it wouldn't be them. If it was one of the servants, they would have knocked.

"Mycroft?" asked Sherlock. Mycroft made a big show of opening his eyes slowly and squinting at the door. He screwed his eyes up in pain as Sherlock had turned the lights on and they were too bright. He threw his uninjured arm across his eyes.

"Who is it?" he snapped. He heard Sherlock run into his room and heard a scraping noise as Sherlock yanked the chair closer to his bed.

"It's me." Sherlock said. Once again he was talking more quietly than usual which was surprisingly considerate of him. Mycroft moved his arm away from his face and squinted critically at his younger brother. He frowned.

"Who's 'me'?" he asked innocently, lacing his voice with the near perfect mixture of confusion and slight frustration. He watched with cruel and vindictive pleasure as uncertainty began to appear on Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock." Sherlock responded, his lip wobbling ever so slightly. Mycroft forced his expression to appear blank. He bit his lip as he pretended to try and remember who Sherlock was.

Mycroft, like Sherlock, was a very accomplished actor, however unlike Sherlock, Mycroft rarely used his talents which meant that when he did choose to use them it was considerably more effective. Sherlock clearly believed that his brother had no idea who he was. Mycroft was slightly surprised at how devastated Sherlock looked but that didn't stop him continuing with the charade.

"I'm Sherlock." Sherlock said, his voice trembling, "I'm you're brother. How can you not know that?" Mycroft felt the beginnings of guilt however he forced himself to ignore them. Sherlock never got what he deserved for all the times that he irritated, injured and generally pestered Mycroft. Mycroft knew that he wouldn't get another opportunity like this for a long time.

"My brother?" Mycroft repeated his voice full of uncertainty. "I'm sorry, I think you must be mistaken. I don't have a brother." the words brought about a wave of guilt as Sherlock's expression twisted into one of absolute distress. Sherlock gazed at him with huge imploring eyes.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice shook and then failed him altogether. His eyes filled with tears and Mycroft felt stunned. Sherlock never cried. Not properly. There were plenty of crocodile tears when Sherlock didn't get his way. But Sherlock never actually cried. Mycroft felt his resolve swiftly crumbling. Sherlock sniffed and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"This is all my fault." he whimpered. "All my fault."

"How can it be?" Mycroft responded, slightly sulkily, "Charlotte said I fell out the tree. She said nothing about you at all" Sherlock bit his lip. Mycroft wondered if Sherlock would tell him, off his own volition and when Mycroft was _awake_, what had actually happened. Mycroft wanted a confession out of Sherlock and he decided that if Sherlock kept quiet he may have to keep the pretence up for a little longer.

"Actually," Sherlock began slowly, "you were on the ground and, well, I was jumping up and down on a branch and it cracked and then it fell and hit you on the head and I thought you were dead and I'm really really sorry." the last bit came out in a rush, but it was a confession. It didn't improve Mycroft's mood though.

"You are an inconsiderate little wretch Sherlock." he said glaring at his little brother. "Why do you never listen to what I tell you? Do you have any idea how much my head hurts?" he almost yelled.

"Maybe if you stopped shouting it would hurt less." replied Sherlock timidly. Sherlock's impeccable logic irritated Mycroft further.

"Maybe if you hadn't decided to climb that tree my head would hurt less" he snarled. He turned away from Sherlock.

"You do remember me!" Sherlock said suddenly, the thought clearly only just occurring to him.

"Of course I remember you." snapped Mycroft in a very ill temper. "Who could possibly forget _you_?"

"I knew you were pretending." Sherlock said suddenly and self-assuredly, "I was just playing along." he continued arrogantly. Mycroft didn't bother responding. He wasn't sure whether to believe Sherlock or not. He was fairly confident though, that even Sherlock couldn't fake that level of distress. A few minutes passed in beautiful silence, and then;

"Myyyyyy-croft?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" Mycroft said sharply.

"When people die what happens to their bodies?" Mycroft inhaled slowly trying to force himself not to scream at Sherlock. There were several good reasons why he shouldn't, if only he could remember them. It would probably hurt his head for a start…

"How do you know when someone is dead? Can people still talk when they're dead? Ghosts are dead and they can talk. Why aren't ghosts in heaven or hell?" it probably wouldn't do much good anyway. Sherlock usually ignored him when he yelled at him. In fact Sherlock usually ignored him most of the time.

"Can you help me dig up a grave to find out what is inside?"

"Get OUT of my room Sherlock!" screamed Mycroft. Sherlock scampered out of Mycroft's room, one again, with only a vague idea of what he had done wrong and Mycroft lay back on the pillows his head pounding and wondering, once again, what he had done to deserve a sibling like Sherlock. In that moment the equilibrium of the house was restored.

_Wow so much longer and considerably more dark than I planned. This was originally going to be a short humorous little fic where Mycroft gets his own back on Sherlock by pretending he has amnesia. I felt awful for Sherlock when I was writing this but I realised that Sherlock would be distressed if Mycroft pretended not to remember him and the laughs kind of had to go out of the window._

_I have a feeling the narration is all over the place (I've used two different tenses for a start) and I will have to sort that out at some point. Probably won't be soon though as I've no idea how to start :s_

_Thanks for reading. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. Thank you to the anonymous reviewer who reviewed last chapter. As I can't reply to you I'll thank you now. _


	7. Knights of Cydonia

_After a long and dramatic battle of wills between myself and my muse I have decided to put_ If We Ever Meet Again _on the backburner for a while. My muse refused point blank to give me the sentence I need and so eventually I gave up and let her give me inspiration for the next song instead which she seemed much happier about. I'm not giving up on If We Ever Meet Again completely though – I like it too much for that. _

_This next story/chapter is written at school so I also have a time limit of one hour (as this lesson my teacher hasn't turned up so I have an hour in which to do what I please – i.e. writing Sherlock Holmes fanfiction) if I haven't finished this I'll post it incompleteand then finish it at home. _

* * *

**Knights of Cydonia** (Muse)

"Name a country" demanded Sherlock into the silence that had been gracing the nursery for the best part of the last hour.

"What?" Mycroft asked, distracted.

"Name a country!" Sherlock repeated.

"Cydonia"

"Is that a real country?" asked Sherlock suspiciously.

"Of course." replied Mycroft dryly.

"Alright." muttered Sherlock and he fell uncharacteristically silent.

"What on earth are you doing?" asked Mycroft, twisting in his seat. He saw Sherlock lying on the floor by the window setting up a chess board.

"Be careful with my chess set." he warned and picked up his book again pleasantly surprised that Sherlock was partaking in a sensible and _quiet_ activity instead of carrying out one of his usual dubious experiments. Mycroft still shuddered when he thought of the time Sherlock had decided to investigate the different rates at which his toys burned.

Several minutes later Mycroft was pulled away from his book by several loud repetitive tapping sounds.

"What are you doing _now_?" he asked exasperated wondering how on earth the eight year old could manage to turn every activity into something that could grate on Mycroft's nerves.

"Playing chess." replied Sherlock innocently, "the Queen and King aren't very realistic." He added with slight disappointment in his voice. Mycroft took a moment to decipher Sherlock's speech.

"Sherlock! Chess is not like your toy soldier, you're not supposed to play battles with them; chess has rules." Mycroft paused and looked at his brother. Sherlock was looking up at him with slight incredulity on his face.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Of course I'm sure!" Mycroft snapped. "You don't know how to play chess then?" Sherlock looked down at the board where the scattered pieces lay looking for all the world like the aftermath of a minute battle.

"I am playing chess." pointed out Sherlock slightly sullenly.

"Let me teach you to play properly." Mycroft said. He thought that the logical aspects of chess would appeal to Sherlock and thought that maybe it would in the future serve to keep Sherlock quiet and entertained. Mycroft stood and crossed the nursery to sit cross-legged on the opposite side of the board to Sherlock. He picked up the fallen pieces and put them in their correct places on the board.

"The board starts like this." he told Sherlock who was watching him with interest. Mycroft pointed out the different pieces and their names.

"Isn't a rook a bird?" asked Sherlock.

"Yeeeees"

"So why is there a bird in a battle? All the other pieces make sense."

"I don't know Sherlock but it is not important."

"So white always starts." Mycroft said.

"Why?" asked Sherlock "and that's Cydonia."

"Sorry?"

"Cydonia." repeated Sherlock. "This side," Sherlock pointed to the white pieces "is Cydonia. And this side" Sherlock pointed to the two rows of black pieces "is England. Why does Cydonia always go first?"

"It just does." said Mycroft sighing heavily. He was beginning to regret his decision to teach Sherlock chess.

"On the first move you have to move a pawn, but you can move it two squares forward." He moved one of his pawns. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and copied Mycroft.

"Usually you can only move the pawns one square forward." Mycroft moved another one of his pawns. Sherlock watched copied him again.

"You can move different pieces to me." Mycroft commented.

"Oh I know." Sherlock assured him.

"So now I can move another piece out onto the middle of the board." Mycroft moved his bishop.

"What religion do they believe in in Cydonia?"

"Why does it matter?" asked Mycroft disbelievingly.

"It might affect where I move my Bishop."

"A bishop is associated with the Christian religion Sherlock." Mycroft replied sagely. "Anyway how can that possibly affect the way you move the piece?" Sherlock just gave him a mysterious smile and moved his Bishop to the square opposite where Mycroft moved his. Mycroft smirked and took Sherlock's bishop with one of his pawns.

"What are you doing with Cydonia's bishop?" asked Sherlock indignantly.

"Taking it. If a piece is in the path of another piece I can take it." Mycroft smiled and placed Sherlock's bishop at the side of the board, "I'm not going to go easy on you." Sherlock scowled.

"The bishop wasn't in the way of the pawn." he muttered darkly. "Stupid England"

* * *

_Not quite finished so will put up the next part when I get home. This isn't bad though for an hour. _

_Thanks to everyone has reviewed _

_Thanks for reading._


	8. Knights of Cydonia II

_I said I'd finish this although there's not actually that much left to write. Here it is though, it just ties it off the previous chapter a little. _

* * *

Charlotte took the stairs two at a time. She'd been sent to find Sherlock and Mycroft who hadn't turned up for dinner. Strictly, chasing after the boys wasn't actually in her job description but she had perhaps the best relationship with the boys out of all the servants with the exception perhaps of Marie. Therefore if Sherlock was sulking she was the most likely of the servants to coax Sherlock from his room. It was unusual that Mycroft was absent too though.

She reached the upstairs landing and knocked gently on Mycroft's door.

"Mycroft?" she called. "Mycroft?" she received no reply. Unwilling to intrude if Mycroft was ignoring her as she was sure that this would be inappropriate, she dithered outside his room for a moment. Eventually she decided to find Sherlock and come back to Mycroft's room after she had sent Sherlock downstairs.

Charlotte dashed down the hall, holding onto her long skirts as she ran, and skidded to an inelegant stop outside Sherlock's closed door.

"Sherlock!" she yelled hammering on Sherlock's door. Again there was no reply. Charlotte was completely at a loss. Sherlock never ignored her. He always replied even if it was just to yell 'go away' but if the boys weren't in their room, then where were they? Of course, the nursery!

Charlotte rushed to the nursery, very much aware that the Master and Mistress were expecting Sherlock and Mycroft in the dining hall. She opened the door and with relief saw Mycroft and Sherlock. They were lying in front of the window, either side of a chessboard. Neither of them had noticed Charlotte enter; they were completely focused on the board. As Charlotte watched Sherlock moved one of his pieces with Mycroft watching him with narrowed eyes. Charlotte smiled as Mycroft moved another of his pieces.

"Checkmate." Mycroft said. Sherlock gave the board a cursory glance and sighed heavily.

"Again." he said sulkily. Mycroft glanced up and saw Charlotte standing in the doorway.

"You should be at dinner Masters Sherlock and Mycroft." Charlotte said. Mycroft stood up.

"Come along Sherlock." Mycroft said and spotting Sherlock's face he laughed and added "We can always play again later."

* * *

_I think Sherlock would pick up the rules of chess very quickly and would be completely absorbed by the game. Since Mycroft is older than Sherlock and also just generally more intelligent I can imagine him beating Sherlock easily every time. Of course Sherlock is very stubborn and so I'm sure that he would want to keep playing anyway. _

_Thanks for reading and to everyone who has reviewed so far! _


	9. Sun Goes Down

_Another lesson with nothing to do (actually that's a complete lie, I should be doing my extended project work but for some reason this seemed more interesting) … _

* * *

**Sun Goes Down **(David Jordan)

"Where does the sun go?"

"What do you mean?"

"The _sun_. When it goes down where does it _go_?" Mycroft turned and saw Sherlock was standing with his nose pressed against the windowpane watching as the sun sank below the horizon. Mycroft crossed the room to stand beside Sherlock, and he too stared at the red sky.

"It doesn't actually go anywhere." Mycroft told Sherlock. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft in disbelief.

"Of course it does." he replied in his all too familiar _it's-obvious _tone, "Otherwise there wouldn't be a night."

"Well, yes I suppose that is sort of true."

"Of course it's true." said Sherlock self-assuredly. "So where does it go?"

"The earth is going around the sun, Sherlock. As it goes around the sun the earth spins and it gets dark at night because the earth spins away – Sherlock, are you listening to a word I'm saying? Sherlock?" Sherlock gazed up at him, slightly vacantly.

"Huh?" he asked vaguely.

"If you are not going to listen to the answer why ask the question?" demanded Mycroft. Sherlock shrugged.

"Didn't seem as important after I'd asked it." he replied absently, "Let's play chess." he added and darted off to find Mycroft's chess set. Mycroft rolled his eyes and followed turning his back on the darkening sky.

* * *

_Just a little one this time as I really should be getting on with my work. I did say to myself that I would update each story once a week at weekends so that I would have time to get on with schoolwork and my art portfolio but it doesn't look like that's happened. _

_Next time: __**Rocking Around the Christmas Tree **__(Brenda Lee) _

_Um, okay I don't think my ipod realises it's not Christmas…_

_Thanks to everyone who has reviewed._

_Thanks for reading!_


	10. Rocking Around the Christmas Tree

_I haven't updated in so long and I' really sorry. I've had so much work to do and I've had absolutley no time. But I'll try to update once a week from now on. _

_The name Sherrinford seems to be a fairly common name chosen for one of Sherlock's relatives however if I have stolen it from someone in particular I am very sorry. My Sherrinford s my own and is not based on anone elses Sherrinford's_

"But _why _do we have to go?" whined Nemeth. Her eldest brother, Sherrinford, looked at her in exasperation.

"Because mother and father wish it." he snapped, "That should be good enough for both of you." he added, noticing that Zachariah was wearing his 'thinking about arguing' expression.

"But I don't _want _to go." Nemeth moaned in the tone that usually got her her own way. Zachariah nodded emphatically in agreement with his little sister.

"None of us want to go, mother and father included." Sherrinford hissed in reply, "But we have to. Count yourselves lucky we only have to visit them at Christmas."

"If we were lucky we would not have to visit them at all." Zachariah commented darkly.

"It is not fair." Nemeth complained. Sherrinford and Zachariah both ignored her.

"They don't want us there either, so would it not be better if we just didn't go?" asked Zachariah opting in favour of rational argument as opposed to whining.

"It's not Fair!" Nemeth repeated, stamping her foot again.

"And it's such along way to go for just one week. We would have a much better time at home." Zachariah continued sulkily.

"It's not FAIR!" shrieked Nemeth, throwing her stuffed toy at Sherrinford, incensed that no-one was paying attention to her.

"Will both of you just be quiet?" yelled Sherrinford. "We're going and that's that. So **stop **going on about it."

"When are they getting here?" asked Sherlock miserably. For once he wasn't bouncing around the house making a nuisance of himself; instead he was sitting quietly with his nose pressed against the window staring at the driveway.

"I don't know." Mycroft sighed. He was sitting next to Sherlock his gaze also fixed on the driveway. Mycroft knew that he should be spending the precious free time left before the arrival of their cousins productively. But he was too miserable. He remembered the last time his cousins had visited: after they had left Mycroft had been glad for a full fortnight that Sherlock was his brother. And then Sherlock had set fire to the nursery completing shattering Mycroft's brief gratefulness for Sherlock's benign (in comparison to his cousins) character.

"Why are they coming?" Sherlock muttered dejectedly. Even the tempting scent of ginger and the promise it brought of gingerbread - one of the few foods Sherlock showed any real interest in eating - did little to improve Sherlock's mood. Mycroft wasn't sure if the question was addressed to him or to a higher power but he answered anyway.

"To teach us that family are best kept well-away from oneself. And unfortunately Christmas is traditionally a time for family and so naturally our family feel obliged to honour tradition and have deigned visit us."

"I think we should start a new tradition." Sherlock replied unhappily.

"I completely agree."

_I'm sorry I'm going to have to give up with this for now. I'm so tired at the moment (as in literally falling asleep over my laptop every five minutes as I'm typing tired) that I think it would be better just to leave it and go to bed. I would have just left it but I felt guilty that it had been so long since I've updated. _

_ If there are any mistakes or anything that doesn't make sense feel free to point them out. I think I'm too tired to write coherently. _

_I'll try to get part 2 out as quickly as possible._

_Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and thank you very much for reading. _


	11. Rocking Around the Christmas Tree II

_I am so sorry I have taken so long with this. This time I'm not going to promise to try to update every week as I know it will probably never happen. I'm sorry but I'm so busy at the moment with school and uni stuff I can't honestly say when I'll next update and it will probably stay that way until Christmas. Thanks for sticking with this and being patient and I __**will **__update as often as I can. _

* * *

_**Nb. I **__This takes place in the afternoon of the cousins arrival after they have gone through all the required pleasantries of greeting Sherlock and Mycroft and Sherlock and Mycroft's parents._

_**Nb. II **__Marie is the head cook. _

Sherlock stalked around the kitchen sulkily, getting under everybody's feet and annoying Marie no end. He had been hiding in the kitchen for most of the afternoon trying to avoid his cousins attentions - he had been following Charlotte and Eleanor around as they completed their daily chores but Charlotte had chased him away with her broom. Sherlock wasn't keen on crossing paths with his cousins; he remembered the last time they had visited they locked him in a cupboard for the best part of an hour before Mycroft noticed he was missing and let him out. It wasn't an experience Sherlock cared to repeat and so he was reduced to finding somewhere to hide.

Mycroft was no help. After greeting their cousins with a blank expression and an impassive tone, he had vanished into his room and locked the door behind him. No amount of hammering on Mycroft's door had persuaded him to open it and let Sherlock take refuge inside. So Sherlock had no choice but to stay with the servants knowing that his cousins wouldn't dare to lock him in a cupboard with adults around, even if the adults in question were only servants.

There was one flaw in Sherlock's brilliant plan; he was _bored_. The kitchen was definitely lacking in entertainment. Sherlock had _tried _to entertain himself but Marie had stopped him playing with the knives and had confiscated the matches he had found. Eventually, after he had looked in every cupboard, peered in every pot and pan, and been pushed aside by every kitchen maid he decided that he definitely needed to find a game to play. He thought wistfully of Mycroft's chess set and came to the conclusion that if he was really quick he could probably retrieve it from the nursery without disturbing any of his cousins.

Nemeth stalked around the nursery like a panther, tense and frustrated, she was waiting for someone - anyone - to do something wrong – just the slightest thing – so that she could pounce on them and release all the pent up frustration. Zachariah and Sherrinford, recognising the symptoms had wisely disappeared; Zachariah to the large grounds and Sherrinford to who knew where. She snarled as she caught her reflection in the window. Two weeks. Two weeks she had to stay here. The time seemed immeasurable, stretched out in front of her. The thought didn't improve her temper.

Furiously she stomped her foot and then noticed there was no one around to see it. This thought incensed her more. _It's not fair!_ she screamed in her head. This didn't give her much satisfaction.

"Not fair! Not Fair! NOT FAIR!" she screamed out loud, stomping her foot. Nemeth threw herself down into a chair and glared at the empty room.

"I'm BORED!" she announced to vacant nursery. When no one replied Nemeth scowled. Then she noticed a chess board. It looked as though Sherlock and Mycroft were in the middle of a game. A wicked smirk flicked across Nemeth's face. She flounced over to the board and moved a piece. Noticing this gave her a kind of vindictive thrill she moved another and another until the board looked completely different.

Nemeth revelled in the mischievous thrill of it for almost a minute until she realised that Mycroft and Sherlock would just continue playing with the board as it was and never realise what she had done. With this knowledge Nemeth walking slowly around the nursery searching for something else to ruin. It had to be something obvious. She was having a horrible time here and she was going to make sure that everyone else did too.

She stepped on something and shrieked in pain. She looked down and saw a line of toy soldiers. Angrily she kicked them and watched in satisfaction as they scattered across the floor. She picked one up and threw it across the room and watched it as it soared through the air and hit the wall near the window with a tinny thud. As Nemeth stared at the spot where it had hit the wall her gaze wandered towards the window and an idea for a good game slowly formed. She smirked and collected all the toy soldiers up in her arms.

Sherlock dashed up the stairs and down the corridor. He almost threw open the nursery door as he usually would, when he remembered that he was supposed to be quiet. Making a special effort to be quiet, he gently nudged the door open and slipped through the gap. Nemeth was already in the room, kneeling on the window seat, staring through the open window. As Nemeth was about the same age and size as Sherlock, he wasn't bothered by her presence.

He darted towards the chess set and gathered it and all the pieces up in his arms. He was about to leave when he heard Nemeth laugh and turned to see what she found funny. It was then he noticed that next to her on the window seat was a pile of his toy soldiers. As he watched Nemeth picked up one of the soldiers and threw it as hard as she could out of the window.

In his outrage Sherlock accidentally let go of the chessboard and it and all the pieces fell to the floor and bounced and rolled across the carpet. A small part of Sherlock's brain noted that Mycroft would be furious when he found out as he had instructed Sherlock to be careful with the chess set. The majority of his brain however was focused on the fact that Nemeth was throwing _his _toy soldiers out the window.

Admittedly he didn't actually play with the toy soldiers any more and the only thing they were useful for was experiments (although he had been forced to stop after accidentally setting the nursery on fire when he had been trying to see how long it would take for one toy soldier to set alight). But that didn't matter as they were _his _toy soldiers and Nemeth had no right to throw them out of the window.

He leapt at Nemeth furiously, pushing her roughly. She fell sideways and Sherlock hit her hard with his fist. Nemeth shrieked furiously and attacked him viscously with her nails. She pushed him hard and Sherlock fell to the floor. As he fell he grabbed hold of her arm and she fell to the floor on top of him. She screamed as he hit her and clamped her teeth around his arm and began attacking him again with her nails. In response Sherlock yanked a fistful of Nemeth's hair causing her to holler.

The door flew open and Zachariah and Sherrinford ran in. Sherrinford lifted Nemeth off of Sherlock and Zachariah yanked Sherlock up by his arm.

"What are you doing?" demanded Zachariah as he shoved Sherlock back against the wall. Nemeth, sensing an opportunity, burst into noisy - and completely fake - tears.

"He - just - just - attack- attacked - me." she gasped in between tears. Zachariah and Sherrinford turned as one to glare at Sherlock. Zachariah kept Sherlock pinned against the wall and no matter how much Sherlock struggled he couldn't get free.

"Stop wriggling!" snapped Zachariah keeping his arm across Sherlock's chest. Sherrinford bent over the sobbing Nemeth, trying to comfort her while Zachariah watched.

"It-hurts!" gulped Nemeth. Sherrinford glared furiously at Sherlock choosing to ignore the bruises and red scratch marks beginning to appear on Sherlock's arms and face.

"Go with Zachariah, Nemeth." Sherrinford said softly and Nemeth allowed herself to be gently led away from the room by the hand. She made sure she was still sobbing and just before she left the room she turned around and smirked at Sherlock. Sherlock was left alone in the room with Sherrinford. Sherrinford took a step closer to Sherlock.

"Do _not _hurt my sister again." hissed Sherrinford threateningly. "Or else you'll find yourself in another cupboard." Sherrinford turned, then turned back and punched Sherlock across the cheek, not with his full strength but enough to hurt. He turned and stormed out the room slamming the door behind him. Sherlock stood frozen for a second in shock and then he ran out the room, angry tears pouring down his cheeks.

He ran to Mycroft's room and pounded heavily and repeatedly on Mycroft's door. After a minute Mycroft opened it a familiar exasperated expression on his face.

"Can you not play on your own for one after-" Mycroft began and then stopped when he saw Sherlock, "Whatever happened to you?" Sherlock sniffed, ducked under Mycroft's arm and ran into the room. Mycroft closed the door and turned to face Sherlock who was sitting on the end of Mycroft's bed crying, half out of misery and half out of anger.

"Well?" asked Mycroft as he pulled the chair at his desk round to face the bed. He sat down and watched as Sherlock made an effort to compose himself.

"Sherrinford hit me." he said as he dragged his sleeve across his eyes to wipe away the tears. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"What did you do to him?" he asked. Sherlock looked outraged for a second before he shrugged and said quietly,

"I hit Nemeth." and then he hastened to add, "she was throwing my toy soldiers out the window." Mycroft sighed.

"You don't even play with your toy soldier Sherlock." he commented as he assessed the numerous scratches and bruises adorning Sherlock's person.

"That's not the point!" snapped Sherlock.

"No it's not." murmured Mycroft. He sighed again, "Sherlock you have got to learn to pick your battles. If you had thought about it you would have known that Sherrinford and Zachariah would defend their sister," Sherlock looked as though he was about to interrupt and Mycroft hastily added, "even if she does not actually need defending. If you had stopped to think you would not have walked into a situation which you had no control over and ended up coming out of it the worst."

"So I should have just let them get away with it?" sniffed Sherlock.

"No, I'm not saying that. You could have come to me. Or you could have waited and taken revenge on them tactically using intelligence. You're so much more intelligent than normal people Sherlock, you've got to learn to use it." Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes.

"So we are going to get them back?" he asked

"Of course." Mycroft replied with an uncharacteristically sly smirk.

* * *

_Aw Mycroft ended up quite sweet this time. He also came up with some quite good advice which was, naturally, completely wasted on Sherlock. _

_Although I can understand Nemeth and Sherlock fighting (as some young children are always getting into scraps and I can imagine Sherlock and Nemeth constantly bickering and getting on each others nerves and it ending up in a fight) I debated for a long time whether Sherrinford would be cold-blooded enough to hit Sherlock and as you can see I eventually decided that he would. Although I don't think he's necessarily cruel, just trying to look after his little sister and trying to make sure that Sherlock didn't hurt her again. _

_Also, this turned out a lot longer than I thought it would be and so I've decided to split it up. There will be another part of around the same length. _

_Thanks for all the reviews. I really appreciate tem. I try to reply to all reviews but I often get mixed up and if I miss one I'm really sorry. _

_Thanks for reading. See you next time. _


	12. Rocking Around the Christmas Tree III

_I'M BACK! Maybe that's just me who's excited about that…_

_But I am excited. After a ridiculously long time of being stressed and having no time for various reasons that I don't even want to think about right now, I finally have some free time! And hopefully (although I do have exams) I should have free time enough for some writing from now on!_

_Oh and I know this would have been far more relevant around Christmas but I was too busy hibernating - seriously I was only able to wake up to eat otherwise I was either asleep or literally to tired to move let alone type a coherent story - and wasn't feeling particularly Christmassy anyway. But now I am - a little late I know. The Christmas decorations have all been taken down, everyone's back to work/school and I start feeling Christmassy *rolls eyes* anyway I hope you enjoy this rather late holiday story. _

* * *

The snow that had been drifting down in leisurely spirals all morning was finally gaining some momentum. Each flake spun towards the ground in a deadly dance before coming to rest on the ground. Although each little flake hurtled determinedly towards the ground, the scene from the nursery window was one of almost surreal calmness. The world was hushed, holding it's breath, silently watching as if in a gentle slumber as the flakes descended.

Sherlock's breath made a circle of mist appear on the pane of glass. He was sitting in the window seat watching the snow as it fell. The window was slightly open and a sharp chill crept into the nursery. Every now and then a little puff of wind would send a flurry of flakes twirling into the room.

Amid the serene determined dance of the snowflakes another object, small and black against the dominantly white scenery, plunged to the ground. It hit the snow, sinking through without a sound, creating a dent that joined a curious line of similar dents, some more shallow than others.

The nursery door opened letting a wave of warm air in and a blast of cold air out. Mycroft entered and seeing his younger brother sitting quietly instantly became suspicious.

"What are you doing Sherlock?" Mycroft asked trying not to make his tone too accusatory.

"Watching." muttered Sherlock so softly that Mycroft was unsure if that was what he had actually said.

"For what?" the elder Holmes asked in genuine bewilderment. He began to wonder if Sherlock was sick - the only other time Mycroft could remember his brother being this still and sombre was when he was five and had had a very bad bout of flu and even then the still and sombreness hadn't lasted for very long, soon Sherlock had been complaining that he was _bored_.

"Just watching." Sherlock replied quietly shrugging his shoulders. Mycroft sat down next to his brother pushing aside the pile of toy soldiers that had been the cause of so much drama a mere two days ago. Mycroft shivered as he stared out at the quiet, quaint landscape searching for something captivating enough to hold Sherlock's limited attention. Finding none but becoming colder and colder by the minute Mycroft reached up to close the window.

"No!" protesting in a slightly more vehement voice but still a long way away from his usual demanding tones.

"What?" asked Mycroft slightly more sharply than he'd intended.

"Leave the window open."

"Why? Do you desire to catch pneumonia?" Mycroft demanded with more than a touch of impatience in is voice. Sherlock didn't answer just continued to stare at the falling snow, watching it with such focused intent that Mycroft began to wonder what he was missing. He looked out over the house grounds that morphed seamlessly into miles and miles of fields for as he could see. All was white, the snow was still falling and although the scene was picturesque Mycroft doubted that it was the beauty of the scene that captivated Sherlock. The only thing that could possibly have gained Sherlock's interest was a row of small dents in the snow that were roughly the same size but of varying degrees shallowness.

But if the mysterious dents were what Sherlock was staring at then why wasn't Sherlock outside investigating them? Unless…Mycroft glanced at the pile of soldiers a slight suspicion forming in his mind. Sherlock suddenly glanced at the clock and then knelt, pushing the window open further. He then grabbed on of the toy soldiers and threw it out of the window confirming Mycroft's suspicions. He and Sherlock watched as the soldier plummeted downwards and shot through the snow leaving a hole and solving the mystery of the line of dents. Mycroft took a moment to admire the accuracy of Sherlock's aim before sighing and adopting an all too familiar expression of weariness.

"Sherlock you cannot throw your toy soldiers out of the window." Sherlock turned from the window to frown crossly at his elder brother - the very picture of defensiveness and argumentativeness.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"Because you were furious at Nemeth for throwing them out the window only two days ago. It is hypocritical to now throw them out yourself."

"What does _hypo-crit-i-cal _mean?" asked Sherlock, sounding out the unfamiliar word carefully.

"When you do something that you have recently complained about or told someone off for doing." Mycroft replied, trying to simplify it as much as possible for Sherlock's sake. He made a mental note to use as few long words in conversation with Sherlock as possible - it would speed up conversations considerably if Sherlock didn't keep stopping him to ask what a word meant. He watched as Sherlock struggled to wrap his head around the explanation.

"Sort of like sarcasm?" Sherlock had recently learnt about the concept of sarcasm and had wasted no time in learning to master it.

"A little, I suppose." Mycroft answered feeling that whether intentionally or not Sherlock was leading them away from the original topic of conversation - the latest way Sherlock had found of abusing his toy soldiers.

"But that is not the point Sherlock. You can't throw you're soldiers out the window. What would Nemeth think if she saw you throwing the soldiers out for the window after you'd told her not to?" Mycroft said the world 'told' somewhat hesitantly - he wasn't sure if fighting with Nemeth quite qualified as telling someone but he in the end he decided to ignore it for arguments sake.

In reply to Mycroft's question Sherlock mumbled something that sounded a little like 'I don't care' Mycroft though briefly about reprimanding Sherlock for that comment but decided that it really wasn't worth it. The nursery was cold and he wanted to go back to his room and indented to as soon as he had forced Sherlock to promise not to throw anymore toys out of the window.

"Just promise not to throw anymore toy out of the window" Mycroft said wearily and added quickly as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest "And I don't care about your feelings on the matter. You have to do as I say as I am older" it was seldom Mycroft played the 'older than you' card but he had always found it effective in the past for when Sherlock was being particularly argumentative. Sherlock scowled at his older brother and sighed.

"Okay," he began, "I won't-" he stopped and looked out the window with a mischievous smile that worried Mycroft. He looked out the window and saw a figure - Sherrinford it looked like- crossing the grounds and growing nearer and nearer to the line of dents.

"Don't even think about it Sherlock." Mycroft snapped, guessing his brothers intent. Sherlock gave the elder Holmes an angelic smile and grabbed a toy soldier and threw it out the window. Both boys watched as the soldier descended rapidly through the air, Sherlock with delight and Mycroft with a mixture of disproval and amusement. The soldier hit Sherrinford's head just as he came into line with the dents. Sherlock laughed gleefully and Mycroft smiled in spite of himself.

* * *

_Wow this supposed one-shot short story is tuning into a bit of a monster plot bunny. I would take it out of this story and give it one of it's own with it's own title and summary and everything but it's a little late for Christmas fics. But then I also don't feel it belongs in this series anymore. It's growing too big, bless it. _

_As ever thanks to everyone who has reviewed (and now that I am properly back on fan fiction I will begin replying to those reviews - sorry I haven't done it before (see stress/no time comment at beginning of story) tanks also to people who have favourited or alerted this. _

_Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next chapter will still be this storyline. Unless I take it out. I haven't decided yet. _


	13. Rocking Around the Christmas Tree IV

Rocking Around the Christmas Tree Part 4

Sherrinford strode purposefully back to the manor. The orange lights that began to blaze in some of the windows and the general feeling of warmth that the manor conveyed made the manor look extremely inviting to Sherrinford in his frozen state and he longed, for the first time since arriving, to be back in the manor. He sped up, shaking his head as he did to try and dislodge some of the freezing moisture that clung to his hair.

As he trudged wearily through the ever thickening snow he wished fervently that he would be allowed to go back to the guestroom he was occupying - he refused to think of it as _his _room - without any interruptions. All he wanted to do was change his cold, wet clothes and sit in front of a fireplace and he sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to deal with any trouble Nemeth or Zachariah may have caused.

He was near to the manor now. He could see the kitchen door and focused intently on it as though the sheer force of is gaze could pull him towards the door without him having to move his legs. Sherrinford shivered compulsively and then sneezed. He groaned wearily - he should have known better than to come outside in the snow. If he came down with a cold now it would be his own fault. At least though that would give him an excuse to stay in the guestroom and therefore have as little to do with his cousins as possible.

A line of inexplicable dents perpendicular to his path to the kitchen door, caught his eye and held his attention for a few seconds while his numb brain struggled to find an explanation. When no explanation arrived he shrugged it off, too tired and cold to care about anything other than getting warm and dry.

He trudged forward concentrate intensely on lifting up a foot and putting it down in front of him and yet the task was also strangely mindless. There was something in the dull rhythm on walking, something that perhaps he could better appreciate when he wasn't so bone tired. He found his concentration drifting… there wasn't far to go now though…only a little further…he stopped in his tracks.

"Ouch!"

The word came out of his mouth without him meaning it too - after all 'ouch' was such a childish thing to say. But it had _hurt_. A sharp pain to his head as though something had been thrown -

He looked up at the nursery window. It was open a fraction but he could not see anyone through the window. That didn't mean that there wasn't anyone there though - it just meant that they knew how to hide. Spinning slowly on the spot he stared hard at the ground until he saw it. As he'd expected lying a little to his left was a dent to match the other suddenly not so mysterious dents. He plunged his hands into the snow, ignoring the way the cold snow bit at his bare hands, and pulled out a small object. A toy soldier.

Fury and frustration gave his dwindling energy levels a much needed boost and Sherrinford near ran to the kitchen door. He wrenched it open and stormed through the kitchen ignoring the surprised looks of the servants. He climbed the stairs as quickly as he could manage as he was beginning to develop a tightness in his chest (which he suspected had something to do with the icy temperatures) that made moving quickly difficult. He made it to the nursery however in time to intercept Nemeth as she excited the room.

"What were you doing in there?" he demanded. Nemeth's eyes narrowed defensively as she glared at her brother.

"Nothing." she snapped, "Why are you so wet?"

"Never mind that!" Sherrinford almost shouted "What were you doing in the nursery?"

"I do not see that it is any of your business." she replied prissily folding her arms and increasing the intensity of her glare. Sherrinford sighed and held out the toy soldier. Nemeth took it, turned it over in her hands and then raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I told you to stop throwing those toys - any toys in fact - out of the window.

"Yes?" she repeated, although this time she sounded bored.

"So why have you disobeyed me and why were you aiming at me." Nemeth's already narrowed eyes turned to slits.

"I didn't."

"There's no point lying Nemeth."

"I didn't do it." snarled Nemeth. Sherrinford rolled his eyes, not a very mature gesture but only Nemeth was around to see it and she didn't matter as she was just a child herself.

"Well who did then?" Sherrinford asked with the air of one who thought they had won the argument.

"I don't know." there was a touch of sulkiness in Nemeth's voice now. "Sherlock"

"Why would Sherlock throw his own toys out the window? No don't answer I don't want to listen to your excuses. Do not do it again and do not get into anymore trouble. We only have a few days left here and I want them to be as uneventful as possible. And if Sherlock finds out that you have been throwing his toys out the window do not come to me if he hit you because if you ask me you deserve it."

Nemeth listened to her brothers diatribe with a scowl and then gave her brother a very poisonous look and stormed off down the corridor in the direction of the room she was occupying. With a pounding head, numb hands and a great desire for a mug of tea or something similarly warming Sherrinford stalked off towards his own guestroom.

* * *

_Aaaaagh! this story is getting bigger and bigger and it's nowhere near completion. Haven't read this through as it's midnight and, well, I want some sleep._

_Anyway sorry for not updating before. I thought I would have time until I remember that my exam required me to remember the contents of twenty-nine essays. *shudders compulsively* anyway the exams all over now so I'm aiming to update once a week (more if I have a particularly boring lesson at school) _

_As usual thank you from the bottom of my heart to all my reviewers and also to anyone who has favourited or alerted this. It's that sort of support that makes writing such a worthwhile pastime (as well as the fact I enjoy it of course) _

_Thank you for reading _

_p.s. Oh and if anyone would like to suggest a song for me to write a story about you can review or message me. Just be warned though if you choose the starwars theme or the water buffalo song then the resulting fic is entirely your fault _;)


	14. Rocking Around the Christmas Tree V

_It's been a ridiculously long time since I've updated. Sorry. Me and my computer have both had viruses. I had flu (still getting over that) and my laptop had some unknown virus that made it moody and uncooperative. It is still upset with itunes and for reasons unknown refuses to connect to the itunes store which is really really annoying. _

_Well anyway this chapter is dedicated to W.R6597 who emailed me to tell me (basically) to get a move on. They phrased it a lot better than that but that's what it boiled down to. And, you were right I did seriously need to update. So that's for giving me (and my muse who I think also got my flu) a push to get writing again. Hope you enjoy it and that it's been worth the wait. _

* * *

"Why did we come in here?" Sherlock asked as Mycroft near shoved Sherlock through Mycroft's bedroom door after dragging him out the nursery.

"Because, think about it Sherlock, if we're in the nursery Sherrinford'll know that it was you who threw that toy soldier at him and all that ridiculous drama about the – look busy" Sherlock frowned but obeyed his brothers hissed instruction just in time. The door to Mycroft's room flew open and Sherrinford burst into the room. Mycroft looked up from his seat at the desk, with an expression of mild surprise and curiosity. The elder siblings generally left each other alone and intervened only occasionally on the younger Holmes' behalf when they felt that their authoritative presence was needed. Sherrinford had the grace to look somewhat ashamed about his dramatic entrance even if it was only a second.

"What are you doing?" Sherrinford asked suspiciously directed his question at Sherlock although it was Mycroft who answered.

"Reading." Mycroft replied blandly gesturing to the open book on his desk. "And Sherlock is no doubt making a nuisance of himself; in all likeliness he has my magnifying glass." Mycroft and Sherrinford both turned towards Sherlock. He sat cross-legged under Mycroft's window a large book open in his lap with Mycroft's magnifying glass in his hand and was slowly ripping a page in the book and examining the result through the magnifying glass. Sherlock glanced up to gaze innocently at Sherrinford.

"Hello Sherry." he said cheerfully.

"Don't call me Sherry!" Sherrinford snapped.

"Sorry Sherry." murmured Sherlock absently as he moved the magnifying glass along the edge of the rip.

Sherrinford clenched his fists furiously but forced himself to calm down as Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

"Did you want something?" Mycroft asked mildly.

"I just - wondered what you were doing." Sherrinford answered somewhat lamely.

"Well now you know." Mycroft replied. It was a subtle dismissal and Sherrinford recognised this. Instead of arguing he examined Sherlock suspiciously a final time and exited the room, not quite slamming the door. Mycroft sighed heavily closing the book he had been pretending to read.

"Do stop that Sherlock." He snapped as Sherlock tugged the rip further. Sherlock sighed theatrically and put the book aside.

"You told me to look busy." He protested.

"I did not tell you to rip up my book." Mycroft snapped, "And what, precisely, possessed you to throw you're toy soldiers out of the window?"

"Experiment." muttered Sherlock as he examined a small tear in the wallpaper through the magnifying glass.

"An experiment." Mycroft repeated wearily, "Of course. What was the experiment?" he added with the tone of one who didn't really want to know, but felt duty bound to ask.

"Seeing how much snow had fallen." Sherlock explained.

"By the depth of the hole?" asked Mycroft sounding almost impressed.

"Of course." Sherlock replied once again employing his infamous _it's-obvious_ tone.

"It can't have been that accurate looking out of the window." Mycroft commented. Sherlock shrugged.

"Well I was going to outside and look and see the difference in the holes."

"The snow will have fallen and made all the holes the same size." Sherlock tipped his head on the side as he thought about this.

"That's true." he said and he leapt up and darted from the room. Mycroft shook his head, picked up his book and resumed reading. He only hoped that Sherlock had the sense to stay out of their cousins' way.

* * *

_Sorry about the length but this was written at school in one of my lessons and I wanted to put it up now. Amazingly this has ended in an opportune place, but this still isn't finished. Sighs. _

_I'll try and update sooner next time. _

_Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and favourited and alerted. It really does mean a lot. _

_Thanks for reading. See you soon (hopefully) _

_xxx_


	15. Rocking Around the Christmas Tree VI

_Hello. Hiatus is officially over. No new laptop sadly but I'm on study leave and so have the opportunity to use my mums desktop. _

_I've been reading back over the story's to try and get back into the feel of writing for writing the young Sherlock and Mycroft and I've realised that for an entire chapter I called Nemeth, Aoife. Now you probably all just rolled your eyes and possibly made a mental comment about my scatiness and get on with the story but I'd just like to give a brief explanation. I did mean Nemeth (next chapter I was back to calling her by her proper name) and I have gone back and changed it. Aoife is the name of another of Sherlock and Mycroft's cousins and she will be making an appearance in the future. _

_Hope you like the story and thanks for all the reviews that you lovely people have given. I hope to reply to every one and am off to do it now, however if I miss someone don't worry I love you just as much and am equally grateful for your review I just have no idea where I am with replying. _

_Long authors note over; enjoy the story. _

* * *

Mycroft walked absently into the front parlour. It was unusual for him to do anything without a purpose and yet here he was wandering around his home for no reason at all.

Perhaps it was his cousins presence and the tension that was slowly building between the two sides of the family that was making him restless. In any case, he couldn't wait for them to leave.

He stopped in front of the large Christmas tree and, scanning it's heavily decorated branches, he rolled his eyes; Sherlock had been eating the candies on the tree again - for someone who had a peculiar aversion to sustenance of any kind Sherlock managed to consume a ridiculous amount of the sweets. He would have to give Sherlock a lecture in covering his tracks - it would certainly save him a lot of time correcting Sherlock's messes -although who knew how successful it would be and perhaps a wise Sherlock was something that the world wasn't ready for.

With a sigh Mycroft knelt and patiently began to rearrange the candies to cover the strip that was bare of any sweets that ran around the tree at exactly Sherlock's hand height. A minute later he stood and examined his handiwork. He studied the tree critically but eventually came to the conclusion that no one would be able to tell what he had done.

With another sigh, when one lived with Sherlock sighing became a bad habit, he walked over to the window and looked out over the drive. In mere days his cousins would be leaving and he could relax again.

He hadn't forgotten his cousins slight against Sherlock, despite what his brother may think. Sherlock had been complaining only that morning that they hadn't done anything and had accused Mycroft, in that strident and conceited tone of his, of forgetting. He'd tried to explain to Sherlock that no, he was simply waiting for an opportunity but he wasn't sure how much of his explanation had actually reached Sherlock.

It didn't matter anyway, no matter what Sherlock did or said, he refused to rush blindly into action as this would increase the likelihood of him being caught. Better to wait and let his cousins make a mistake or for an opportunity to present itself. And glancing at the Christmas tree and the decorations he had just rearranged he thought he had found his opportunity.

Sherlock scampered down the hall and knocked on Mycroft's door. When he had waited for five seconds and received no response he began pounding on the door.

"Myyyyycrooooft!" he yelled and began to use the other fist to bang on the door as well.

"He's not in there." Sherlock turned and faced Nemeth who was standing a few feet away, her head cocked and her eyes fixed on Sherlock in the manner of some predator.

"And how would you know?" Sherlock demanded although he had to admit that her words were likely true - Mycroft would have reacted by now if only to yell at him from the other side of the piece of wood to 'go away'

Nemeth sniffed daintily and chose to ignore her cousin. She passed him and started down the stairs only to turn back and say,

"I know it was you who threw those toy soldiers out the window Sherlock and I'm going to prove it."

Sherlock looked at her. Hitting her was tempting but something was stopping him. Something Mycroft had said when he hadn't really been listening, something about intelligence. So he smiled at her and darted off down the corridor towards his room. He heard Nemeth stomp her foot and that was satisfying, strangely even more so than if he had actually hit her.

So now all he had to do was work out a plan to get Nemeth back.

* * *

_Shorter than usual - super short in fact - and I've sorry about that. I'm having a lot of issues getting back into the story. It's much harder than I expected._


	16. Sorry

_Sorry_

_I mean that truly. Sorry to all of you; every single reader from those who have stuck by this story from is beginning way back to those only just joining it now. Really I love every single one of you. I just can't do this anymore. _

_And that sounds like I'm ending a relationship… :s _

_The thing is I write because I really enjoy it but for a while now Season's in the sun has been a chore. I hate writing it and to be honest the only reason I have been updating is you lot. But forcing myself to write something isn't really working out anymore, the chapters are getting shorter, I can't seem to get anywhere plot wise and I'm just ending up with chapters I really hate. _

_I thought it might be that I'm finding Rocking Around the Christmas Tree really hard and I tried writing something else but I couldn't do it. I'm not trying to boast but writing is one of the things that comes easily to me but I really can't write anything. _

_I'm thinking now that maybe the problem is it's been way too long since I've read a Sherlock Holmes story (I leant my complete Sherlock Holmes book to a friend almost a year ago now) and so maybe once I start reading them again I'll remember why I love Sherlock Holmes and be inspired to take up the pen again. I really hope so._

_Until then I'm going to have to say goodbye. I'll miss this fandom and I'll miss you. I feel so bad for quitting this, but I really have hit a dead end. _

_Seriously every person who reviewed, favourite, alerted, every person who read, thank you. You really did/do make my day and I will miss you. I hope to see you again soon. _

_Thank you also if you have read this far into this long authors note. XD_

* * *

_To say I'm sorry and to hopefully in some way convey my love to you all I'm about to write you a drabble. I found out somewhere that Victorian schooling usually started at 10 (I'm fairly sure it was 10 -I've dragged this fact up to the surface from the depths of my memory so it may have got a little distorted on the way, also I'm not sure whether the education act that made schooling available to everyone not just the rich changed this starting age or not, but for the purposes of this fiction the starting age of a Victorian school is 10) _

_Incidentally I also don't know if Victorian schools had half terms. For the purposes of this fiction they did._

* * *

"But where are you _going_?" whined Sherlock.

Mycroft looked down at his younger brother. He often wondered what his brother would do should Sherlock lose the ability to whine; it would certainly make Mycroft like his sibling more. Furthermore Mycroft had lost count of the amount of times he had explained this to the three year old; he couldn't believe how little Sherlock retained. It made Mycroft wonder why Sherlock bothered asking questions at all; surely if one couldn't remember the answers to questions seemingly mere seconds after the answer had been given it made the act of asking a question a bit redundant. Of course logic was wasted on the three year old.

"I'm going to school."

"What's school Mycroft?"

"It's where you go to learn things."

"What sort of things?" Sherlock's voice was nasally and irritating and, as usual, reminded Mycroft of the beginnings of a headache.

"How should I know? I haven't been yet!" Mycroft snapped running out of patience. His brother had been following him all day. While Sherlock usually spent time in Mycroft's company today Sherlock had been Mycroft's shadow, although unlike a shadow Sherlock could whine and complain and ask questions. It made Mycroft glad that tomorrow he would leave for boarding school. No more Sherlock asking him a relentless stream of questions. No more Sherlock following him. No more Sherlock playing with and breaking Mycroft's things. No more Sherlock at all.

"Why do you have to go?" Sherlock asked disturbing the silence Mycroft had been enjoying.

"To get an education." Mycroft replied dully hoping that a lack of enthusiasm might deter his sibling.

"Why?" Sherlock asked not at all perturbed by Mycroft's enthusiasm.

"Because."

"Will I have to go?" Would Sherlock never run out of questions?

"Yes." Mycroft answered tonelessly. His mind kept wandering, thinking about what life without Sherlock might be like.

"When?"

"When you're older." Mycroft forced himself to focus on the knowledge that this time tomorrow he would be free from the curiosity of the three year old.

"Is that when I'll see you again?"

"Huh?"

"Shouldn't say 'huh'" Sherlock quipped looking up at his brother with big admonishing eyes.

"Never mind that, what do you mean?" Sherlock sighed as though he couldn't believe his brother was being so stupid.

"Mother and father said you were going to school and that you were staying there so wouldn't be living with us anymore. So, will I see you again when I go to school?"

"I'm coming back Sherlock."

"Huh?"

"Shouldn't say 'huh' Sherlock." Mycroft teased.

"Never mind that," the three year old replied mockingly, leaving Mycroft surprised at the three year old's sudden, unexpected display of sharpness.

"I'll come home Sherlock. In October sometime. And then at Christmas. And then again in February probably."

"So it's not goodbye for ever?" Sherlock asked sounding hopeful.

"No Sherlock, it's not goodbye forever." There was a brief pause and then Sherlock looked up at Mycroft with big eyes.

"I'm glad."

* * *

_Ironically I actually quite enjoyed writing this…_

_Thank you for being such lovely readers. _

_Goodbye. __xxx_


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